


God loves you but He's busy now

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Religious, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Cults, Fictional Religion & Theology, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: Marrying Álvaro was Isco's dream, but he didn't imagine it would happen this way...





	God loves you but He's busy now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> Many thanks to the amazing @prompt_fills, without who I would never write this thing, for curing me of procrastinating and doubting my ideas, and for inspiring me to write new things. I'm looking forward to our future "collaborations" ;)

Isco takes off his shoes and opens the wooden door. The house smells of food. The dinner’s going to be delicious.

“Álvaro? Is that you?” Álvaro’s mother calls from the kitchen.

“No, aunt Susanna, it’s me,” he replies and takes off his jacket.

“Oh, Francisco,” she says, coming out of the kitchen while wiping her hands on the apron. “Have you seen Álvaro? I thought you were together.”

“No, not today, aunt Susanna,” Isco says. “He stayed in the library.” He resists the urge to cringe. There is literally no book in their community library that Álvaro hasn’t already read, and also no book that anyone except Álvaro would ever want to read. Most are pamphlets written by José Mourinho, or Mourinho’s predecessor, usually on the topic of worship, end of the world and the Scripture of the Lord of Life. Which is probably the only publication in the library not written by Mourinho or the other guy. Maybe. Isco is not entirely sure about that.

“I hope he doesn’t come too late,” Susanna sighs. “Brother Mourinho is coming for dinner tonight. He apparently has something important to tell us.”

Isco’s excitement for the dinner immediately disappears. Not that he has anything against brother Mourinho personally, but him being the guru of the cult makes everyone act stiff and wary, like Mourinho can read their minds. Of course he can’t, he just has his people snitching on others. Isco doesn’t really blame him for that. Mourinho simply knows how to do his thing.

“Dress nicely for the dinner, please,” Susanna instructs him. “I don’t want brother Mourinho to think I’m neglecting you.”

“Yes, aunt Susanna,” Isco sighs.

She nods and runs back to the kitchen as something on the stove hisses warningly. Isco walks up the narrow staircase and closes the door of his room behind him. There are no decorations in his room whatsoever, except for the painting of a pine tree, the symbol of the Lord of Life. And even the painting is so hideous that it can hardly be called _decoration_. All the houses and all the rooms in the community look exactly the same, so that nobody would be jealous of their neighbors. Isco tried to bring some things from his old home when he moved in, but Álvaro’s mother got rid of them promptly. He mourned them for a long, long time.

Álvaro’s family took him in when his parents died. He was just the boy from the village nearby, who came over for a snack from time to time when they played with Álvaro outside and Álvaro invited him in. But Álvaro’s parents insisted that they couldn’t leave him alone. Álvaro said they couldn’t, he pestered them until they gave in and solved all the necessary paperwork - and that meant something, because people from the community had a natural distaste for the mundane things, paperwork, authorities and law. Sometimes, when he thinks about it now, he gets the feeling that perhaps it wasn’t entirely Álvaro’s idea, that it was the community that got it in his head, and he talked his parents into it. It was just the way the cult was getting new members after all, fishing among desperate and lonely people.

But in his new home, nobody really cared about what Isco thought about the cult of the Lord of Life, as long as he played by the rules. So he didn’t really question, he just sort of co-existed with the community. He was no rebel, but no devoted member either. Sometimes it even felt nice, to get in that strange trance during the worship. He could forget the whole world, empty his mind. And he would be always surrounded by people. He would have all he needed, because the community would see to it.

He still can’t wait to get out of there, though. If he ever figures the way to get out, that is. He’d first need to find a job, so that he could rent an apartment or something, but finding a job without the community knowing is impossible, and the community will insist that he doesn’t need a job. A paid one, of course. There is plenty of things the community needs, but dusting Mourinho’s pamphlets or painting pine trees isn’t really something he’d want to do until the end of his life. And there’s also Álvaro. Who would probably love dusting Mourinho’s pamphlets, and definitely wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

And Isco cannot imagine his life without Álvaro anymore.

 

* * *

 

By the time José Mourinho finally appears, Isco is already starving. The table is set almost as if there is a wedding about to be celebrated in the house, and the entire family is gathered around it. Even Álvaro’s older sister is there, which is unusual. Children who have their own families already don’t usually eat with their parents, unless it’s a very important dinner.

Everyone stands around the table. Isco looks at Álvaro, who’s dressed as though Mourinho has come to judge their fashion style, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he looks at the pristine white of the tablecloth, waiting for Álvaro’s father to finally say the prayer so that they can start eating.

“Brother Mourinho, it would be an honor…” Álvaro’s mother mumbles right before her husband can start speaking.

Isco looks up just in time to see Mourinho’s grin. He bets he was waiting for this.

“Of course,” he says and pauses dramatically. “Lord, you are mighty and all providing. We thank you for the food on this table, around which we have gathered tonight with those you have looked upon. Humble our hearts, oh Lord, and make us thankful for all your blessings. Amen.”

A cheerful “Amen!” sounds in response. Isco sits back in his chair and waits for his turn to put food on his plate. There’s scarcely any left, because Mourinho’s helped himself to a good portion of the meat and roast potatoes, and he _definitely_ checked if there was dessert on the counter.

“Delicious,” the guru says while stuffing his face.

Isco looks at Álvaro and they stifle a giggle, because no matter how highly Álvaro thinks of José Mourinho, the sight is still hilarious.

“Anyway,” Mourinho says after he wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Why I came here tonight.”

Álvaro’s family leans forward inadvertently. Isco follows their example, as he’s learned over the years that doing what people around him are doing is usually the easiest way to survive.

“The Lord has spoken to me.”

_Well, doesn’t he do that all the time?_ Isco thinks, but keeps his mouth shut, as everyone else is literally hypnotizing Mourinho’s lips.

“As I’ve already said many times during our worships, the end is near, and we all know there aren’t enough places inthe Lord’s Kingdom. However, there is a way to ensure that we would all be accepted in his throne room.”

“The virgin sacrifice,” Álvaro whispers.

“The virgin what?” Isco blurts out without really thinking about it.

Álvaro gives him a scolding look that is probably meant to say: _if you read more, you’d know this_. “The virgin sacrifice,” he repeats slowly. “Two people - virgins, to make sure the sacrifice is pure - are ritually married under the full moon and then sacrificed to the Lord of Life. When the end comes, they will let the fellow followers in the Lord’s Kingdom and live eternally in His light.”

“Amen, boy,” Mourinho says and drinks the rest of the wine in his cup. “And the Lord has chosen your family. Praise be.”

Isco looks at Marta. Then he realizes that she is already married, thus most likely not a virgin. And his stomach almost makes a flip.

“Our boy?” Álvaro’s father asks incredulously.

“Both of your boys,” Mourinho corrects him with a smile.

No. He cannot mean… he cannot _know_ this. Isco’s had a crush on Álvaro since they were in their early teens, and Álvaro also seems to like him, but it’s all very chaste and platonic and definitely not obvious…

Álvaro’s parents exchange astonished looks. His mother clamps a hand over her mouth. Álvaro’s father looks at Isco, practically beaming. “I always knew the Lord sent you to us for a reason,” he says, like the only purpose of Isco’s life is… to die for some god he doesn’t even believe in.

“Wait… does that really mean…” Isco says and turns to Mourinho. “By sacrificing, you don’t really mean… or… how…”

“How it’s done?” Mourinho asks, shaking the bottle to get even the last drop of wine out of it. “There isn’t a prescribed way, however, the Lord forbids us to spill blood. We’ll do it by strangling.”

“Excuse me?” Isco almost yells at him.

“It will be relatively quick, and _very pure_ ,” Mourinho says and takes another sip before patting Isco on the back. “You don’t need to worry, boy. What’s a moment of pain compared to the eternal life by the Lord’s side, am I right?” He turns to Álvaro. “Am I right?”

Álvaro nods, however, Isco isn’t entirely sure that he knows what he’s agreeing to.

“Sister Marta!” Mourinho’s sharp voice interrupts the quiet chatter at the table as he looks at Álvaro’s sister with his intense stare. “Are you crying?”

Isco feels the relief washing over him. Álvaro’s sister has always been the reasonable one in the family, she almost - _almost_ \- led a normal life, went to a normal school instead of being homeschooled like the other kids, which made her some sort of a black sheep within the community, even though she came back and married another member later. If there’s anyone who can stop this madness, it’s her.

“Yes,” Marta says and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Of… of gratitude. We are so blessed that the Lord has looked upon us.” Then she reaches over the table and squeezes Álvaro’s hand. “I’m so proud of you, little brother,” she whispers.

Álvaro is smiling like a stupid little child, his parents are patting him on the shoulders, Mourinho is grinning like he’s just won a lottery, and Isco is just sitting there, forgotten and completely mortified.

 

* * *

 

It’s long past midnight when Isco finally forces his body to move and creeps out of his room. Running away in the middle of the night is an extremely tempting option, although he would probably become homeless and die of hunger anyway, so it wouldn’t be much better than the fate awaiting him.

The house is quiet but when he opens the door to Álvaro’s room, the small lamp on his table is still on.

“You can’t sleep?” Álvaro smiles. “Me neither.”

“The hell I can’t,” Isco says, ignoring Álvaro’s disapproving look as he says the word _hell_. Going to hell for saying _hell_ is the smallest of his concerns right now. “I need someone to tell me it was all a dream.”

“Right?” Álvaro grins and sits up. “I can’t believe it either. Why us two? I thought it was maybe because of the dates of our birth? ”

_Most likely it’s because us two are the only virgins of marriageable age Mourinho could find in this place_ , Isco thinks, but swallows it. Admitting it out loud is actually harder than he thought. Probably not for Álvaro, though, because he is even proud of it, the idiot.

“Álvaro, I don’t think that _why_ is the right question now,” he says softly.

“You are right,” Álvaro nods, and when Isco is almost rejoicing, he adds: “We shouldn’t question the Lord’s motives.”

Isco suppresses a frustrated groan. “No. Listen to me. This is madness. Do you even understand… they are going to… do that thing… in four days!”

Álvaro’s face falls. _Now he surely must have understood,_ Isco thinks, _I can talk some sense into him now._

“That’s so soon!” he whispers like he’s realized it only now.

Isco nods encouragingly, waiting for the panic to come. It indeed comes, and Álvaro grabs Isco’s hand like he’s a scared little kid. “So little time for everything!” he whines. “How will brother Mourinho prepare everything? And how will we prepare ourselves… like… shouldn’t we pray before, or… have some… I don’t know… cleansing?”

Isco resigns. If he’s to save them, then he has to do it alone. He definitely can’t count on Álvaro’s brain, because it has apparently gone missing.

 

* * *

 

The plan of escape is the first one he has to discard, because the community apparently has some schedule of who will keep an eye on them at what time. The nighttime is reserved for Álvaro’s parents, because one of them is always up whenever Isco or Álvaro open the door of their room, and they watch them even when they only go to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Isco has never seen anyone so eager to have their own child killed.

Álvaro’s mother spends her days adjusting their clothes for the wedding, ironing them over and over, and Álvaro’s father is constantly “discussing something with brother Mourinho”. Whenever Isco walks out of the house, the members of the community smile at him and pat him on the back and tell him how amazing his upcoming death is, so he stops going out altogether. To avoid Álvaro’s family, he stops leaving his room as well. Telling them that he needs some time alone to prepare himself is enough - he even catches Susanna passing his room on tiptoes, so that she wouldn’t interrupt him in his prayers.

Needless to say, his prayers consist of asking whatever reasonable entity there is to help him get out of this situation before it’s too late.

 

* * *

 

The ritual is taking place outside - under the full moon directly. It doesn’t really make a difference, because nobody with things right in their head lives in the perimeter of twenty miles, and even if there were reasonable people, would they care that Mourinho and his dogs wanted to strangle two boys to ensure they’d get a place in Heaven once the end of the world came?

The circle where everything is supposed to happen is illuminated by countless torches and candles held by the people standing around. There is a heavy scent of frankincense in the air. In the middle, there is a double chair that looks like someone has simply put two upholstered, antique armchairs together. But decorated with flowers and white sheets and all the lights, it actually looks beautiful. It looks like a real wedding, and for a moment, Isco thinks about how perfect it would be if it really was just that.

Álvaro looks beautiful. He looks the most beautiful Isco’s ever seen him and he falls in love with him all over again. All in white and in the candlelight, he looks almost like he’s not real, like he would disappear if Isco tried to touch him.

He can’t even listen to whatever Mourinho and the two other priests are saying, because it doesn’t really make any sense and mainly, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to die in a matter of minutes. And also, Álvaro is looking at him like he can see nothing else, and Isco doesn’t want that moment to end.

Maybe his senses are sharpened by the imminent danger, but Álvaro’s touch feels like electricity and when their lips meet, albeit in a very chaste kiss, his knees feel dangerously weak. He’s almost grateful when they sit them in the prepared double chair.

His fingers squeeze Álvaro’s hard when the rope wraps around their entwined wrists. Álvaro’s thumb rubs the back of his hand comfortingly, and for a moment, Isco really almost calms down. In the next, he marvels at how stupid he has to be when a mere touch can subdue him enough to let Mourinho’s dogs tie him to the chair so that they can strangle him more easily.

When the priest wraps the silk scarf around his neck, Álvaro only closes his eyes. He looks as calm as ever, he looks almost fucking _happy_. Isco, on the other hand, is close to hyperventilating. When he feels the silk on his throat, he panics completely.

“We fucked last night!” he yells.

The voices around them fall silent. Someone’s probably dropped a candleholder, judging from the loud metal bang.

Álvaro is in such a trance that it takes him long seconds to realize what’s happening. Then his eyes fly open. “What?” he breathes out and turns to Isco. “No, we didn’t!”

“We did,” Isco insists, putting on his stubborn face because that one is the least likely to show that he’s lying. “Fuck. Last night.”

Mourinho’s face looks like all of his blood has concentrated only in his head. His skin is almost purple, and Isco would swear to the Lord of Life that his head also looks bigger now. The voices rise from quiet mumbling to panicked shouting and outraged cries.

Someone unties them, which is a good sign, definitely. Mourinho is dealing with a flock of panicked followers who are probably starting to realize that their way to the Lord’s kingdom will be more complicated than they thought. The two priests, desperate to get the cause of the chaos out of everyone’s sight, grab Isco and Álvaro and start pushing them towards the nearest building, which happens to be the library.

Which at least gives Isco the opportunity to wave the Scripture of the Lord of Light at Álvaro in case he forgets he can’t spill Isco’s blood.

 

* * *

 

“Why did you do that?” Álvaro yells at him as soon as the door closes behind them. “Why did you lie? Why… why would you even say something like that?”

“Because I don’t want to fucking die!” Isco hisses. “You do?”

Álvaro looks like a truck has just stopped inches from his body. It’s the usual look he has when confronted with reality. “I… we… we won’t really die!” he says then.

“Sorry, but if they strangle you with a silk scarf, then you die, and for real!” Isco snaps.

“On this Earth!” Álvaro says like Isco is a stupid little child not able to understand a basic fact. “But we’d be married in heaven, eternally.”

“Fuck eternity!” Isco snaps. “Where’s the guarantee for that?”

Álvaro just shakes his head and sits on the ground. “Where’s the guarantee for anything?” he whispers.

“Listen. I want to be with you. I even want to be fucking married to you. There’s probably nothing I want more. But I prefer it to be here, on this Earth, in this body, for some years, than eternally… maybe, somewhere, somehow, ethereally, if what Mourinho says is true, because he cannot know that, okay?”

“He _does_ know it, he knows everything!” Álvaro sobs.

“How could he know it, the fucker is still alive!” Isco yells. “When he dies and comes fucking back and tells me ‘I had a blast in the afterlife with the Lord of Life’, then fine, strangle me all you want!”

“Why do you need a proof for everything?” Álvaro yells back. “Why don’t you ever believe in anything? Well, I know why. Because faith takes courage, that’s why!”

“So I’m a coward!” Isco shouts. “If you have the courage to go there and die, kudos to you. I don’t.”

“I had it!” Álvaro snaps back at him. “Until you fucking lied and ruined it!”

_Now we’re getting somewhere_ , Isco thinks.

“Fine. But if you insist that we didn’t fuck last night, they’ll make us go back there and finish the job. The moon is still shining, I think,” Isco says.

“But it’s not true!” Álvaro objects.

“Yeah, but does Mourinho know?” Isco grins. “Will he check?”

“What… ISCO!” Álvaro yells, face all flushed.

Isco takes a breath, but before he can say anything, the library door flies open. Isco looks in that direction and gulps. There is a very angry José Mourinho standing on the doorstep, and behind him, Álvaro’s parents and sister, looking no less angry.

“So,” Mourinho says and folds his arms. “Did you two really… you know.”

“We did,” Isco says without missing a beat.

“I’m not asking you!” Mourinho snaps and nods to Álvaro. “I’m asking him.”

Álvaro looks up at him and for a moment Isco thinks that he will not be able to speak at all. His face is all flushed and he’s close to tears. “I… we…” he stutters and looks at Isco. “We… did.” 

Álvaro’s mother starts sobbing loudly. His sister walks up to him, slaps him in the face and leaves with the most disgusted expression Isco has ever seen, dragging her mother along.

Isco quickly checks that Álvaro is relatively okay, because in the first moment, he was afraid that he’d see his head fly across the room. Then he gives Mourinho a challenging look. _What are you going to do now?_

Mourinho does nothing. He turns on his heals and storms out of the room.

Which is definitely a good sign.

Álvaro’s father, who until now has been standing there in quiet rage, is now as pale as Mourinho was red. He walks up to them and for the second time that night, Isco is afraid that somebody will kill him.

“Pack your things,” Álvaro’s father says through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to see you here in the morning. Either of you.”

Isco resists the urge to smile, because there’s no command he’d obey more gladly.

Álvaro starts crying.

 

* * *

 

Isco sits on the wooden bench of the bus stop and throws the backpack with his things on the ground. There is a bus connecting the villages, but not at three in the morning. Waiting for the first one at six seems like a stupid thing to do, but there’s nowhere they could rush to, simply because they have nowhere to go.

“We could go to you mother’s sister,” Isco says. “You know, the one she didn’t speak to because she thought the cult of the Lord of Light was bullshit. That wise woman.”

Álvaro nods ponderously. “Or we could join the Divine Light cult. From what I’ve read, their teaching looks reasonable and I think they only sacrifice animals…”

“Álvaro.”

Álvaro gives him a sheepish look. “What?”

“No.”

“But…”

“I said no.”

Álvaro pouts. “I don’t know about you, but I need to believe in something.”

Isco sighs. “You can go to a Catholic Church. Because they sacrifice fucking _biscuits_ , and that’s all I’m able to tolerate.”

For a long time, they sit in silence.

“I should hate you,” Álvaro says then.

“For saving your life?” Isco turns to him. “No, I should hate myself for it, probably.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

“Good.”

Álvaro leans closer to him and presses his lips to Isco’s. “This part wasn’t bad, though,” he says.

“No, definitely,” Isco agrees and pulls him closer. “I actually enjoyed that part the most. Well, right after turning Mourinho’s face into a beetroot.”

“You are so stupid!” Álvaro yells and pushes him.

Isco falls back, laughing hysterically. Apparently, narrowly escaping death results in huge mood swings.

“You know what I’ve just realized?” Álvaro says then.

“What?”

“We’re still actually married.”

Isco looks at him and sighs deeply. “Álvaro… when we get to civilization and start meeting normal people… could you… not talk about any of this?” he asks. _Could you not talk at all around normal people?_ he thinks.

Álvaro blinks. “Why?”

“Because our marriage was also a double attempted murder.”

“Oh,” Álvaro says. He looks like a child being told he cannot eat the cookies.

“It can be our secret,” Isco suggests, figuring out that he really is dealing with a baby in this world. “Nobody needs to know about it, okay?”

Álvaro’s lips slowly curve into a smile. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Isco wraps an arm around his shoulders and thinks about how fucked they are, and how irrationally happy he is about it.

He’s probably really gone mad.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a translation of a Czech song lyrics.


End file.
